


We're Always Okay

by neonheartbeat



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 11:08:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonheartbeat/pseuds/neonheartbeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set before the events of The Avengers and after Iron Man 2. Clint and Natasha one-off drabble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fire and Smoke

_It wasn’t supposed to be like this._

Those seven words kept running through Clint Barton’s mind as he watched a red and orange blossoming fireball blow through two things.

One was eight feet of concrete wall with steel reinforcement and the other was a small female figure in black with long red hair, tumbling through the air like a thrown doll.

He couldn't get to her in time. He could never have reached her before the bomb went off. And he couldn't move, either, which was fucking annoying, to say the least. The shock wave from the explosion had already hit and blown through his bones and rattled his teeth and knocked him to the ground where he lay with what was probably three cracked ribs and a fractured skull.

_Rude._

As the smoke settled, he sat up, trying to ignore the screaming pain in his side. “Nat!” he tried to shout, but all that came out of his throat was a weak bark. He coughed and tried again. “Nat! Natasha!”

He couldn't hear anything, and that fact alone terrified him until he remembered he was wearing his earplugs and he tore them out, tossing them to the ground—

“Natasha!”

Maybe she’d landed in the grass, over in the courtyard. Maybe she’d tucked and rolled and landed on her feet and was going to come out of the trees with a smug grin and a swing in her hips like she always did, always did, always did _why isn't she answering me what the hell Nat where the fuck are you get out here right now—_

Clint realized he was screaming, screaming hysterically like a stupid kid, and clapped his hand over his mouth, shaking, trying to calm down, to be in control. If SHIELD was monitoring them he’d look like a fucking moron, incompetent--

He climbed over a pile of rubble and saw red hair, and forgot about SHIELD.

_“Nat!”_ He scrambled over the concrete block and steel rebar and broken glass and realized something was horribly wrong, again, because legs didn't bend forwards, or up to someone’s shoulder. “Shit. Nat, oh my God, Nat, no.”

Clint brushed glass and rebar off of her and grabbed for his comm. “This is Agent Barton. Agent Romanov is down. I repeat, Romanov is down and I need medical assistance down here now.”

The voice of Phil Coulson came crackling through the speaker, crisp and dry. “Copy that. We’re sending down a medical team. ETA twenty minutes.”

“Twenty—no, you have to do better than that. She’s—her legs are broken. I can see several compound fractures. She’s bleeding pretty bad, she’ll bleed out in twenty minutes.” Clint was shaking again, gripping the radio in both hands.

“I can’t do better. I’m sorry.” There was a crackle, and Coulson was gone.

“Fucking asshole!” shouted Clint, and threw his radio on the ground. It didn't break. SHIELD tech was made to last for years.

“Clint,” said a small, very controlled voice from somewhere in the rebar.

“Shit,” said Clint, and forgot about the radio.

After he pulled her face out of the concrete, he rolled her over on her back, which was an ordeal in and of itself. Her face was white as paper and blood marked her forehead, mouth, and nose. “Why’d you have to wake me up?” she said tightly. “I was having a very nice nap.”

Clint had to laugh. “Yeah, sorry. You can sleep later.”

“I can feel my bones touching something,” she said in that same tight voice. “Are my legs broken?”

“Yeah.”

“Your hand,” she said, and he followed her sight to his right hand, where white and red bone jutted out of his wrist. 

“Son of a bitch,” he said in disbelief. “Is that my radius?”

“Ulna. I think.” Nat blinked a few times and wiped blood out of her eyes. “Don’t turn your hand over.” Typical Natasha, two broken legs and she was worried about his hand.

Clint was already at her hips, cutting her jumpsuit away and exposing her thigh. “Jesus Christ.”

“How bad is it?” Nat craned her head down, lips white.

“I—” Clint could see bone sticking out of her thigh, her shin, for fuck’s sake, her legs were shattered. She’d have to be in intensive physical therapy for months to walk again. She’d need bone grafts. She’d need surgeries; extensive, multiple surgeries. “I’m not a doctor,” he finished weakly.

“I didn’t ask a doctor. I asked you.” Her eyes were huge and pale and greeny-gray in the dusty light. “Clint. How bad is it?”

He wiped his eyes with the back of his good hand and sat back. “It’s bad,” he said shortly, and took off his jacket. “I’m gonna try to stop the bleeding, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, and went rigid as he pressed the thick fabric to her open flesh. “Fucking hell,” she spat. 

“I’m sorry, I know.” Clint tied the jacket tight around her legs and made sure the bleeding was at least contained. “Try to hold still.”

“I can’t do anything but,” she snapped. He adjusted the angle of her legs, elevating them on a slab of cement. 

“Okay, there. I’m done. You okay?”

“No, I’m not,” she managed, eyes shut, tears leaking and mixing with the blood on her cheeks. “Is Solentsky dead?”

“Yeah. We blew his ass to kingdom come. He won’t be funding—whatever it was he was funding—anymore.”

“Terrorist organizations. Did you fall asleep in the briefing room again?” she asked, a small smile on her white lips.

“Hey, it was boring. Too many Russian names.” Clint sat back beside her and cradled his arm. He knew she hated being out in the open and unprotected, and there was a very real risk that Solentsky’s goons were watching them.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” she said.

“Nah. I just like a few Russian names.”

“Oh, really? Such as?”

“Ehh, Romanov isn’t too bad.”

She chuckled. “No, no it isn’t.”

“I also like Natasha. Just for the record.” Clint rested his head against a chunk of concrete and shut his eyes as pain began to creep up his arm. “Oh, goody. Adrenaline rush wore off and now it’s starting to hurt like a mother.”

“I could shoot at you, if you’d like,” Natasha offered. “Get your adrenaline back up.” He let out a short heh. He didn't have the energy to laugh. 

“We’ve got ten minutes till they get us. You okay?”

“I’m fine. You?”

“Fine.” Pain screamed through his arm now, really hurt, stabbing burning pain. “We got this. We’re okay.” He said it more to convince himself than to convince her.

“We’re always okay,” she said faintly. He turned his head and saw that her eyes were blank, staring up, her shallow breathing sounding raspy. A bubble of blood burst at the corner of her mouth.  
“Jesus.” She probably had internal injuries—internal bleeding—“Nat, hey, over here.”

She didn’t respond.

“Nat! Ten minutes, Nat, hold on, you can do it.” He rolled onto his knees and flicked her face with his good hand. “Nat, wake up!”

She blinked slowly, and made a face at him. “Quit that.”

“You gotta stay awake. Look at me. Hey, look at me.” She focused and coughed, spraying his face with warm blood. 

“Sorry.” She sounded horrible. Her head slipped to the side, and her eyes went out of focus again. She was losing blood. She couldn't stay conscious. Clint cursed SHIELD to kingdom come and slipped his mangled hand under her head, feeling her cold, clammy skin and her soft hair.

“You’re gonna be fine. Natasha, you’re gonna be okay. We’re always okay, remember?”

“Clint.” Green eyes found his, and then they slipped shut, and no matter what he did or said, they wouldn't open again.


	2. Blood and Steel

Lights streaming overhead, and voices, and white walls and light gleaming off metal—this was Natasha Romanov’s first impression of the conscious world.

She assessed the situation quickly, as she had been trained. Status-alive, cold, nauseous. Lights and metal and white walls-hospital. Pain-legs, chest, neck, head. Pretty bad, but she’d been through worse.

Somewhere behind her head, she heard a familiar voice shouting, “She’s bleeding out—let me back there—Natasha!” and other voices trying to calm the first voice.

She ran the voice through her memory. Male. Tenor. Bit raspy. Clint Barton.

“Clint,” she said. Her voice sounded alien to her ears—too shaky, too tiny, too weak. 

Someone said something that didn't mean anything and she forced herself to look at the person just long enough to register the SHIELD logo on the white coat and then something poked her arm and blissful black drowned her.

~

Clint opened his eyes and sat up too fast, his ribs aching. “Christ,” he spat, wincing and pressing his good hand to his side. That was a mistake. He grabbed the rail of the hospital bed instead, gritted his teeth, waited for the pain to subside, and painfully lay back, staring at the ceiling.

A SHIELD nurse walked in, a young man with warm brown eyes and a fresh face. “Hey, Agent Barton. Take it easy.”

“Where am I?” asked Clint. He looked down at his right hand, swathed in white bandages, and wondered if he still had all his fingers. He felt cold and sick.

“You’re in the SHIELD base in Moscow. We airlifted you and Agent Romanov here—it was the closest medical facility available.”

“That bad?” Clint rubbed his good hand over his face and found a bandage. “Give me my stats.”

“Two broken ribs, one fractured rib, a moderate concussion, and a shattered right wrist.” The nurse nodded toward his hand. “That was a mess. We had to do two surgeries. You’ll be able to use your hand again, though. Some therapy and you should make a full recovery.”

Two surgeries? Clint tried to work it out in his head. The mission had been on the fifteenth. Two surgeries might be another two days, or a day and a half—“How long have I been out?”

“Almost two days. You got wheeled in and the minute you got through the doors you were off the gurney and trying to get to Agent Romanov—do you remember?”

“No.” Clint felt a little embarrassed.

“You were yelling and slurring and falling into the walls. You’d lost a lot of blood, and that coupled with the morphine—well, it took a couple guys to wrestle you into bed and knock you out.” The nurse tossed his file onto the bedside table. 

“Nat—she lost blood.” Clint winced. Breathing hurt.

“She’s still in intensive care. She’s lost a lot of blood and we’re still waiting on a scheduled shipment from the London base, which might take a while. O-positive can only receive O-negative or O-positive. We’re out of it here. We already gave her what we had but it wasn't nearly enough.” He checked his watch. “It’s practically a miracle she’s held on this long.”

“Did you say O-positive?” croaked Clint. “I’m O-negative. I can donate.”

“You’re full of morphine,” the nurse pointed out. “Noble sentiment, but not an option.”

Clint looked down at the needle taped into the bend of his right elbow. “How long does it take for morphine to leave my system once I’m off the drip?”

“Two days with your metabolism, faster if you drink a lot and wash your system out.”

Clint reached down with his good arm and yanked out the needle. It stung like a mother. “Get me some water,” he said.

“You can’t—”

“Yes, I can. Now shut the fuck up and bring me something to drink.”

~

The pain started in on him almost immediately. Within five minutes, his ribs were aching insistently. Clint ignored it and gulped down water.

Thirty minutes later, his hand was screaming with pain and his ribs felt like a million red hot needles were stabbing him and his head was aching so badly he thought it brain might melt out his ears and drip down his chin.

He couldn't walk, so someone brought him a bedpan and he tried to work past the indignity of pissing himself in bed. 

Two hours later, he was lying as still as he could, teeth clenched so hard he could feel them creak, eyes wet, staring at the wall. The pain was all there was by this point, and he couldn't remember why he’d thought this was a fucking good idea because god _damn_ this _fucking hurt._

Time started melting into a weird, deadened blur of agony and lights and peeing and drinking gallons of water until finally a different nurse, a girl this time, came in and said something about his blood being clean. Clint was staring at the clock on the wall, counting the seconds. It had been exactly fifty hours, forty-two minutes, and twenty-twenty-one seconds.

A needle slid into his arm. His already outraged mind abandoned all pretenses of strength. Clint screamed, and started making noises that would be more appropriate coming out of a twelve-year-old girl’s mouth than a trained assassin.

Seconds and minutes ticked by, and he tried to stop crying like a baby, he really did, but he couldn't see the clock anymore because his eyes were blurry and wet and then the needle slid out and someone said something about having enough and another one went in and oh God fucking yes, yes, _yes_ it was _morphine._

Clint let his head fall back, and felt cold tears drip into his ears. “Don’t tell her I cried,” he said wearily, and passed out.


	3. We're Always Okay

Someone was speaking. 

Clint ran the voice through his memory banks, trying to process it. Not Fury, and not Coulson, and not Nat; therefore, not important. Solution: ignore it until it went away.

Except that plan didn’t exactly work, because the voice just kept on yammering and talking and god _dammit_ couldn't a guy get some sleep around here?

Clint forced his eyes open. “F’ k off,” he managed, and a bright light shone in his eyes. “I said fuck off!” he said loudly. The words he heard gradually started to hold meaning. 

“Barton, open your eyes. Look at me.”

He focused on the light and the glint of metal and the worried eyes behind a pair of glasses. A doctor. White coat. SHIELD logo. Huh.

“Pupils uneven. Who the hell told him giving blood after a concussion was a good idea?”

There was a distant answer, but Clint couldn’t hear it, not really, and then despite the frantic shouting and machines beeping, Clint fell back into the warm blackness of unconsciousness. 

~

“Agent Romanoff. How do you feel?”

Natasha raised her head, looked at the orderly sitting by her bed, and let her head fall back down. “Like shit. Where am I?”

“SHIELD in Moscow. You’ve lost a lot of blood. Try to stay still.” The orderly smiled and set his clipboard down on her bed. She followed his action and saw her legs, encased in white casts.

“ _Chyort voz'mi_ ,” she gasped. “How bad is it?”

“Your right leg was shattered, the tendons torn apart at the hip and knee. Your left leg was fractured in seven places, tendons torn at the knee only. We performed four surgeries already, and with therapy, you should heal fairly well.” The orderly pushed his glasses up on his nose.

“How long before I can get back to work?” she asked.

He coughed and looked uncomfortable. “Uh, that shouldn't be a concern for you at the moment.”

She leveled her gaze at him. “Tell me. Now.”

He considered. “Two years at the least.”

Two years.

Natasha rolled her head away and stared out the window. Two years. Two years of her life gone, spent on therapy and people treating her like a toddler and fuck if she was going through with that.

“Clint,” she said softly. She rolled her head back over. “Where’s Agent Barton?”

“In intensive care. He had a grade two concussion—that coupled with the blood loss—he’s still unconscious.”

“Blood loss? He wasn't bleeding. He had a broken hand. He wasn't—” Natasha looked up at the tube leading out of the bend of her arm, up, all the way to the bag of blood that hung from a hook above her. “He did _not_.”

“He did. He insisted.” The orderly scanned a sheet of paper. “Yeah, he went off his drip and washed out his system and insisted on donating. He’s the only compatible donor we had.”

“Idiot,” said Natasha, in a tone of voice that said the exact opposite. 

~

It was raining over Moscow. Grey drizzle soaked the streets and gave everything a damp, miserable chill that even a thick coat couldn't keep out.

It had been a week since Natasha had opened her eyes, and now she lay in bed, looking out the window and simply being glad she was alive.

“Tasha,” said a croaky voice.

She turned her head and saw Clint, standing in her doorway, in a hospital gown and holding an IV stand that hooked into his arm.

“What are you doing up?” she asked.

“Oh, you know. I was having a nice nap, but then I woke up.” He cracked a smile. He looked terrible. She noted the bruise-colored shadows under his eyes and the week-old stubble on his face. “Mind if I come in?”

“Yeah, come here. There’s room for two.” She patted the bed with the hand that wasn't being used as a pincushion.

He limped over and sat down, awkwardly trying to keep his hospital gown from hitching up in the front. “Damn thing.”

“ I've seen you naked,” she told him. “Remember Budapest?”

“Don’t remind me,” he said, and made a face.

She laughed, and it hurt to laugh, but it was a good hurt. “You can lie down if you want. I won’t bite. Help me move my legs.”

He twisted sideways and slid his hand under her knees, lifting both of her plaster-cased legs at once as she moved her upper body with her arm. She tried to not let her eyes sneak up the bulge of his bicep and the tendons standing out in his arm. Oh well; it was a good effort, she told herself.

“There. Comfy?” He looked down at her, and when she nodded, he scooted into her bed and sighed, the bed vibrating under his weight and motion. 

“Yeah,” she said wearily, leaning her head back into the hard, thick curve of his shoulder. “How’s your hand?”

“I get to wear this for a couple months and then it comes off,” said Clint. “Good as new. You?”

“Legs shattered. They’re gonna airlift me back to New York for intensive therapy, see if they can shorten my recovery time.” Natasha shut her eyes. “Coulson already visited and did the whole ‘sorry about that’ spiel. My offshore account should be about fifty thousand dollars bigger by now.”

Clint chuckled. “Good old Coulson. He came in and pitched me a whole speech about how they were reassigning me to New Mexico, and as soon as I felt up to it, to get out there.”

“They shouldn't assign you on something else so soon,” said Natasha. “Not after they got us into this mess.”

“I know. Its just one job in New Mexico and then I’ll take a long vacation.” Clint reached over with his good hand and rested it on her fingers. “I’ll be out of trouble.”

“You better be.” Natasha flipped her hand over and curled her fingers around his. Coarse, rough fingers, with callouses and bitten nails—but gentle as they held her hand there on the rough blanket.

She’d seen him put an arrow through a man’s skull at seventy-five yards, and he was holding her hand. 

“Tasha,” he said softly, in a half-broken, tired, quiet voice. She knew that voice. That was the voice he used after missions, after _the sun had set and they were collapsed on a hotel bed and filthy and smelling of sweat and gunpowder and blood_

“Clint?” she asked, in the voice she always used _rolling over on the bed looking over at him as he would push himself up with his arms and stay there, arms locked, head down, shaking a little from adrenaline and exhaustion and then he’s look at her and smile a little bit and say_

“You need me?”

Heat flooded her, right as it always did, hearing those words coming out of his mouth. She turned her head and looked up at him, his worn face, lines by his eyes she hadn't seen before. “I don’t know, do you need me?” she asked as she always did _eyes half lidded on her back arms above her head as he would look down and run his tongue so slowly across his bottom lip eyes dilated face flushed lips parted he’d shuck off his jacket if he still had it on and then he’d whisper **god yes** and find her neck and collarbone with his lips, trace her, outline her shape with his tongue_

“Always,” he said softly, and squeezed her hand. She sighed and let her cheek rest on his shoulder. That wasn't the answer she’d wanted—but hey, she had two useless legs and he had a useless hand and this was really no time for an after-mission quickie anyway.

“I forgot how warm you are,” she said. He let out a gentle rumble of a sigh and rested his cheek on her head. “They said you donated your blood to me.”

“Yeah,” he said.

“ I've been doing the math in my head. You would have had to go for seventy-two hours without morphine.” Natasha felt him go still under her. “With broken ribs and a concussion and a broken hand—why did you do it?”

“You needed the blood.” He sounded dry and brittle. “I’m alive, aren't I?”

“Clint.” She put her good hand up and found his face, stroking the stubble. He turned his head into her hand and nuzzled into her palm, warm and scratchy and comforting. 

“You’re okay. We’re both okay, and that’s all I want,” he said. His breath was hot against her fingers. 

“Thank you for the blood,” she said quietly. 

“Yeah,” he said, and kissed her palm. 

“Hey, no kissing until I’m out of the casts and can do something about it,” she said, pretending to be irritated. He laughed and kissed her hand again with a loud smack, then scooted her closer to him.

“Me and you, we’re gonna be okay, Nat,” he said drowsily as the rain pattered down on the windows and the sun sunk into grey dusk.

“We’re always okay,” she murmured, and shut her eyes against the fading light.


	4. Epilogue

New York was no better than Moscow, Natasha reflected. The medical staff were less attentive, and the food was better, but other than that, it was the same. Same SHIELD logo plastered everywhere. She’d been here a month, hobbling around on crutches (undignified to the extreme, but better than a wheelchair) and she was already sick to death of the therapy sessions.

“Agent Romanov, you do realize that you will never be able to use your legs in the same way again?”

The question was asked, in the same way, every afternoon at exactly three thirteen PM, as she sat in a chair not designed for people on crutches.

And every day, at exactly three sixteen PM, she would answer serenely, “I am not going to accept that prognosis.”

They’d had had a field day with her psych profile anyway; might as well give them something else to worry about.

Natasha was good at giving people things to worry about, after all.

It was her job. She was the Black Widow, the Supreme Queen Of Fucking Shit Up and damn if she was going to quit just because of a couple of shattered legs.

At night, though, it was different.

At night, she lay awake and stared at the ceiling in a Valium-induced haze and tried to make her lips stop trembling and thought in a very tiny mental voice _what if I can’t remember how to pull off a dolyo chagi?_

_What if I never remember how to?_

_What if I never walk again?_

In the morning, she’d forget about the night, and get up, and shower with her legs in plastic bags, and fix her hair, and maybe even put on some makeup. She’d have coffee and make her way downstairs and sit in the little garden on the fifth floor and Pepper Potts would come by and bring her little presents even though she wasn’t supposed to be there, even though she had a Fortune 500 company to run.

Pepper would bring her organic tea from that little shop in Greenwich and books and chatter about Mr. Stark’s latest antics (“He literally blew up the microwave! The man graduated from MIT and he can’t remember he’s not supposed to put metal in a microwave?”) and mention how her watch was slow, and did Natasha want anything at all next time she came by?

Yes, Natasha liked Pepper; but not for these reasons. She liked Pepper because Pepper would talk and visit under the pretense of “girl time”, and then, as she was leaving, she’d hug Natasha and surreptitiously slip something into her pocket.

The something would always turn out to be a StarkDrive, a tiny USB drive that contained 400 gigabytes, invented by Tony Stark himself. And when Natasha would plug it into her laptop, she’d have all of Agent Barton’s files, all of his logs from New Mexico, all of his reports and briefings to date.

_That_ was why Natasha liked Pepper. 

In the morning, there was coffee and Pepper and books and hot showers.

In the afternoon, there was therapy and worried doctors.

In the evening, there was a laptop and the lights over the river and the sunset and Clint in New Mexico.

At night, there were tears and crushing, aching loneliness and a bleak, empty future stretching off into infinity.

~

“Agent Romanov?”

Natasha looked up into a black suit and a SHIELD badge. “Can I help you?”

The man was impassive, large, and not warm in the least. “Come with me.”

Natasha grabbed her crutches and hobbled after him, wincing inwardly every time the damn things clacked against the shiny floor. The man politely waited for her by the elevator, opened the door for her, and they got in.

“What’s this about?” asked Natasha.

“You,” said the suit, and Natasha barely had time to think about this before the doors slid open on the recovery room floor and she came face to face with Director Fury himself, standing in the hallway, his dark form cutting an impressive figure in the sterile white hall.

“Director,” she said, a little confused.

“Agent,” said Fury, and motioned to a room. She followed him in and, when he indicated she should take the bed, obeyed.

“What’s going on?” she asked, eyes narrowed.

“The doctors tell me your prognosis is…disappointing.” Nick set a silvery briefcase on his lap and opened it. Natasha couldn’t see what was in it.

“They tell me I won’t walk normally ever again,” she said coldly.

“Good. This is your lucky day.” Fury lifted a black-gloved hand up and showed her what he held. A large syringe, glass, bluish liquid inside. Natasha’s mind flipped through reams of data until she found the answer she wanted.

“Is that…don’t tell me that’s—”

“It is. We recently restarted the SSR and found this in one of the old facilities. Apparently someone succeeded in reconstructing the Super-Soldier formula from Steve Rogers' blood. We’ve run extensive tests and it seems to be a weak version of the original. It wouldn’t give you muscle mass, or height—but it might heal a couple of legs a little faster than usual.” Nick’s eyes—eye—was kind. “You wanna go for it?”

“Give me a second,” Natasha said numbly. Everything she wanted, suddenly handed to her on a silver plate—it couldn't be that easy. “What do you want from me in return?”

There was a long silence. Fury sighed. “We were contacted by someone looking for the Black Widow. Someone in Russia wants you for a job.”

“You sure it’s just a job?” Natasha stared at him.

“No,” said Fury heavily, “but this person has acquired incriminating SHIELD information, and only the Black Widow will do in exchange.”

“So, he wants to trade for your dirty secrets.” Natasha chewed on her bottom lip. 

“Exactly. This was the only way we could think of to help you out in any way we could. After Stark—”

“Yeah, I know. You owe me.” She reached up and ran a hand through her long red hair. “Well, fire up the super-serum, Director. I don’t have all day.”

Fury gave her one of his rare smiles.

~

“Natasha? Open your eyes. Natasha. Agent Romanov, open your eyes.”

Light burned the backs of her retinas, painful and bright.

She spat out, “Ow!” and grabbed the edge of the table with her hands, flipping her weight over her head and landing on her feet with a thump amid cries from medical personnel and rustling and her legs felt oddly heavy and stiff and—

Oh. Casts. She was still in casts.

She looked down and staggered sideways, unable to stand properly. Someone grabbed her and helped her to the table, and she saw the empty syringe and remembered—

“Get the casts off,” she panted, and a technician brought a saw and a few short minutes later her casts were lying on the floor in eight pieces.

She stood, tested her weight to be sure, and walked to the door.

A nurse scuttled after her. “Agent Romanov, we have to run tests, you can't just--where are you going?”

“To the shower,” she said, turning back. “And then Russia.”

~

Naked, she stood in front of the mirror in her bathroom. Her legs were perfect—not a single fracture or even a bruise left, everything as it should be.

Natasha found the scissors that she’d borrowed from the surgical ward and looked at her reflection carefully, tilting her head, measuring the curl and drape of her soft hair, combed out to frame her face.

The steel came up, and with a soft, satisfying snick a red lock fell to the tile. And another. And another.

_Snick. Snick. Snick._

When she was done, she smiled at her reflection. A new hairdo. A new Natasha. A new start. She liked the idea of a new beginning, even if it was actually out of her reach.

She gathered up all the hair, dumped it in the garbage, and started the shower.

When Clint came back from New Mexico, he was going to have a ball teasing her about it—after he got over the initial shock of her being on two legs.

Natasha wasn’t worried about the Russian job. She’d show up, kill someone, and escape. Maybe lay low for a while. Maybe she’d hire out as a petty spy. It was decent money if you worked for the right people. 

Natasha rinsed her hair and stepped out of the shower, toweling off and walking to the window.

The sun was rising. 

She realized this had been the first night in a month that she hadn’t spent being afraid of the future, and she smiled.


End file.
